hall of mirrors

frozen, southhaven

every facet contains a face

each one real but none quite true

not turned nor carved but cut like glass

and I have prism’d just like that

slanting time to make it last or

close my eyes until it passes

morning moon and nighttime noon

a sun note rising from the tomb

where I was once then once again

the face of now that’s now the past

unwrapped from time’s slow tourniquet

a flawless light imperfectly cast in

every face behind the glass

~ Liana Seaver 12/14

Note:

Last night, Denise Miller rocked it at FIRE and I hung around her too close a bit longer than necessary so something of her could rub off on me. That’s when I noticed a thing on the wall behind her–held up with thumbtacks. I scooched in to see it better. It was a poem I’d written last year; must have left it behind from my show in March. It didn’t get pitched. No name, but me…not thrown away. Perfectly anonymous. Whatev. I started to leave. Got to the door.

Then I turned around, borrowed Denise’s pen and signed the damn thing. This is my poem.